


Under the Table

by ritsuko



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Biting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Cabin Fic, Come Swallowing, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Fuck Or Die, Gags, Horny Bucky Barnes, Knifeplay, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Heat, Omega Shame, Omega Verse, Scenting, Secrets, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, going into heat, switching meds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritsuko/pseuds/ritsuko
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	Under the Table

"Is there anything else, Commander Rumlow?"

Brock pauses, half turned to walk out of Pierce's office. He's not exactly sure what the old fart is alluding to, so he just smiles tersely.

"Sir?" He glances over his shoulder. He's never liked Pierce, but it's not like there's anything that he can do about it. Alexander Pierce is his boss, the head alpha of the whole US dealings of HYDRA, but that doesn't mean that the fucker doesn't make his skin crawl.

"Anything else at all?" He asks, a slightly mirthful 'I know something you don't know' tone dripping from his voice.

Brock's gut drops into his boots, mind racing, trying to figure out how and where he fucked up. But he hasn't. He follows every mission with perfection and precision. Maybe a few cracked eggs here and there. . .

. . . meaning.

Fuck. 

"I can't imagine anything important that would deal with the mission, sir." He lies, casually crossing his arms across his chest. Just the motion of his t-shirt being strained against his nipples is enough to slightly arouse him.

Double fuck.

He stands stock still, hoping that the other man hasn't caught the scent of him. 

Pierce assesses him coolly a few more moments. Brock wills himself to stay completely still. Finally after what seems like forever, Pierce smiles, cold and reptilian, and nods.

"Alright then. Off you go." Brock turns again. "take care of my asset, Commander."

Brock gives a two fingered salute to his temple before rushing out of the room. Pierce props his chin on his steepled hands.

It had taken him a quite a while to realize that Rumlow was _one of them_. Almost admirable that he had made it this far in HYDRA, pretending to be an alpha.

But that luck had finally run out.

~*~*~

Rumlow manages to make it to the elevator, before having a mini meltdown. On the outside, he is his usual indifferent self, but he's screaming on the inside.

_Keep it the fuck together_ he silently reprimands himself. _He's watching, always watching._ With barely a shake, he reaches into one of his cargo pockets, and pulls out a pill bottle. The suppressants are street grade, but they do the trick. At least they had been doing the trick. The last couple of weeks, he's felt hotter, hornier, wanted to get fucked-

He uncaps the bottle and shakes a few pills into his hand. Five. The recommended dosage is two. He pops all of them anyways, dry swallowing. He can't report to the Vault like this. 

He's kept it a secret his whole fucking life. Nothing is going to take it away from him. 

~*~*~

By the time he rolls up to the Vault, he's calmed considerably, although there's still a prick of uneasiness running through his core. He wants a cold shower. Or someone to suck his dick, but at this point he's too hot and bothered to even think about anything sexual without it fucking with his head.

_Just focus on the fucking mission._

Maybe in a couple hours he can sink his cock in the Asset's mouth-

He stifles a groan and bites his lip. Goddammit, what the fuck is wrong with the suppressants? His teeth dig on the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood and he feels slightly better. 

_Just focus on the pain._

_Order comes from pain. Always has._

Slowly, he lets his breath out and steels himself before collecting the Asset for their mission.

~*~*~*~

It had been the usual, grab the Asset, bring him to the rendezvous point and wait for extraction. The lank haired brunette had stared him over long enough to make him fidget in his boots before making his way off into the snow.

Why the fuck their extraction point was a cabin in the middle of fuck-all nowhere was beyond him. He knows that the Asset would trudge off through the snow and be back within a few hours, ready to be put back on ice.

Same as always.

He contemplates jacking off, but settles on a cold shower. It'll be awhile before the Asset is back anyways. Even as he removes his clothes, the scent of his own musk makes him feel delirious. 

He hasn't smelled so strongly of a heat since his first. Since he found a street dealer to get suppressants from and hide the shame that he, Brock Rumlow, asshole supreme, is actually an omega. He grits his teeth as icy water pours over him, doing little to quell the fire in his belly.

He finishes, no less horny but at least the stink of his body has been muted. He dresses quickly, checking his watch. It shouldn't be too long for the soldier to get back.

St[ll, the time drags on. His head feels cloudy, body on fire. Fuck, what he wouldn't give to fuck. With a grimace, he reaches for his pill bottle instead.

He shakes more suppressants into his hands, swallows them whole. Will they last him, being cooped up in this place, alone with the asset?

He blinks, as something catches his eye.

There's something he hadn't noticed before, in the bottle, a paper, wadded up to look like a pill. Brock forgets to breathe for a moment. Slowly he pulls it out. 

Pierce's handwriting.

_You were very convincing for a time, Rumlow. But we can't have Omegas on the STRIKE team. Consider this your demotion._

_Fortunately for you, the asset has also been having troubles with his suppressants. Take good care of him for me._

The room spins, and Brock thinks he's going to barf. Pierce fucking knew. Slowly he feels himself sinking, barely registers the mattress underneath his ass.

_He replaced my suppressants_ , he thinks blankly. Which makes sense. Fuckers haven't been working worth a shit for awhile now.

Timing is shit and the cabin door opens. The Winter Soldier stalks in and Brock stares up at him from where he's collapsed on the bed. Snow must be falling pretty hard outside, because flakes are stuck in the other man's hair, glistening in the light of the cabin. 

Fuck, the Soldier. Adrenaline is coursing through his body. The Soldier smells so fucking good, so fucking hot, he-

Brock's eyes widen. Oh fuck no.

The other man is staring at him in slight confusion, and then his eyes widen. His pupils dilate slightly, and his mouth goes slack. The asset smells him.

"Stay back." Brock warns, hands scrabbling on the bed for a gun, a stun baton, anything. Where the fuck are his weapons? There's no way that he can take the other man one on one.

There's another sick part of him that wants the other man, writhing on top of him, claiming-

"Stop moving." The soldier growls, blown pupils watching him hungrily. Brock barks back a laugh, he's the one who gives the orders. But his body betrays him, the two words invoking something primal and hungry in him. He can feel his hole getting slick.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Stay the fuck away from me." He breathes. He knows he has to be still. All the sex ed classes in school taught him everything that will spike an alpha's arousal during heat. Don't run. Don't fight. Just lay back and get mated. 

Fuck. THAT. 

There's no chance against the asset. But maybe if he just stays still, stays calm, maybe he can ride it out.

_Yeah, and maybe Pierce wears pink lacy panties_ he thinks, and immediately grimaces. Not really a thought he wants rolling around in his head at the moment.

Or ever.

But at least it kills a little of the heat.

"Go sit in that chair, and don't you fucking move unless I say so, you hear me?" Brock snaps, pointing to an armchair across the room. The asset stares at him, assessing, before complying. The chair groans under his weight and he eases into it, legs spread and obviously hard. Brock closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth.

He just has to wait for extraction. Rollins will get him out of here, and things. . .

Things can't go back to normal.

But it's all he can do to pretend that they might.

~*~*~

He thinks he can ride out the heat. It's a fucking mantra in his head, over and over. _Just fucking breathe._

But he's forty seven fucking years old and he's been suppressing his heats since he was thirteen. There's no fucking chance. His fingernails have cut perfect little crescent moon divets in his palms, but the pain is helping him focus.

A little.

To his credit, the soldier hasn't moved from the other side of the cabin, to where he's ordered him. It's been hours, and the other man is as still as a statue.

Still, he watches on hungrily, those stormy blue eyes focused on his now blanketed form. Waiting.

Brock's skin feels like it's on fire. He doesn't dare take his clothes off, or crawl out from under the covers. Doesn't touch himself. If he does, there will be no turning back. Once his heat permeates the air-

His communicator dings, and he scrambles to grab it. It clatters to the floor and he half falls out of the bed, cursing all the way. Grumbling, he grabs the com, ignoring his aching cock. If only the soldier wasn't here. . .

\--How are you bro?-- The message is from Rollins. Furiously, he taps an answer back out.

\--Get me the fuck out of here, now.--

There's a pause, and Brock wonders what's taking so long for an answer. The asset shifts slightly, and he ignores him.

\--Hello?!--

\--You're in like twelve feet of snow. No can do.--

Brock curses under his breath. Fucking really?!--You're fucking kidding me. I don't give a shit if it's two hundred. Get me out now!--

Another pause.

Finally the light dings again. --Pierce's orders. No can do.--

And then. --Everyone knows. I'm sorry Brock.--

Blankly, he stares at the words on the screen. It feels like his heart drops into his stomach, like his tongue is suddenly three sizes bigger, like he is nothing. All his years, working his way up the ranks. The leader of STRIKE. And it comes to this.

His temper gets the better of him, and he screams, throwing the comm at the wall. A piece flies off of it as it impacts. Great, it's probably fucking broken. Not that he cares anymore.

He stands up off the bed, rage consuming him. He can't help it, he's so fucking hot and his body is on autopilot. He flips the table and the few contents it held crash to the floor. His fist goes into a mirror on the wall, shards shattering as he cuts his fist. The pain feels familiar, good. He's grabbing a floor lamp when a strong metal hand clasps around his wrist.

Startled, he looks over his shoulder. "I told you to fucking stay over there!" He screams, but the soldier doesn't even flinch. He leans down, breath hot against the older man's neck and bites. 

Brock's breath hitches, a guttural moan ripping from his lips. Oh fuck, that feels good. The Soldier presses him up against the wall, and he can feel the alpha's hard cock grind against his ass. He hisses in need, his own dick lurching in his tented pants.

The asset's teeth scrape his neck, and every muscle in Brock's body is singing with need. Stubble whispers along his neck and he can barely stop himself from pressing back onto the other man. Before he can even clench, his hole drenches, preparing him for mating.

"Fffffuck." He grits out, as the other man ruts against him. It feels so fucking delicious. He can feel his cheeks burning. He wants more. 

But not like this.

The Asset has been fucked by everyone on STRIKE. He's the bitch. If Brock becomes mated to him- He swallows, skin crawling. He fucking can't.

His free hand scrabbles along the soldiers side, searching, before he finds the stiletto the man always keeps. With a quick flick, he opens it and drives it backwards.

But the Soldier has already moved. Catlike, standing several feet away. Brock crouches, in a stance that will more easily allow him to lunge.

"Like I said," Brock pants, "Don't you fucking move."

The brunette stares at him, assessing. 

Then, he starts undoing his heavy jacket. For a moment, the older man thinks that he's trying to get less clothed so he can maneuver better. Only when the buttons are undone, and the other man is unzipping the jacket does he realize what a fool he's been.

The musk of pure alpha rolls over him, torturing him. It's all he can do to not get on his knees and crawl to the other man. The jacket falls to the floor with a thud. The asset pulls a black t-shirt over his head and kicks off his boots. His chest is hairless, sweaty, and Brock wants to run his tongue up and down each muscle. 

Hands rest on the fly of his pants and Brock starts to panic. His own boxers are soaked, and he knows that as soon as the other man has his cock out, it's over. 

"Rzhavyy!" He growls, hoping he's not fucking up the pronunciation. "Semnadtsat'!"

The soldier's eyes widen a moment, but then he smiles. It's fucking terrifying. He takes a step closer, fingers teasing at the button fly.

"Rassvet! Pech'! Devyat'!" Fuck, why was the control phrase so many goddamn words? His mind is reeling in panic, trying to remember them all. The asset reaches out a hand, and Brock slices at him with the stiletto. "Dobroserdechnyy!"

The asset moves in, swiping with his feet. Brock manages to jump it, but doesn't notice the other man's metal hand, clamping on his wrist. Brock struggles.

"Vozvrishchaniye na rodinu! Odin! Gruvozoy wagon!"

There's a pause, and a choked laugh slips out of the older man's throat. Why hadn't he thought of this before? With the words, he can just get the other man to suck him off, ease his heat that way-

The world stops making sense for a moment as he is flipped through the air and slammed on the bed, hard enough to knock the air out of his body. Gasping, Brock feels the knife get knocked from his hand. Something warm and moist is pushed into his mouth, that smells like the asset. He can't help but roll his tongue over it, a frustrated groan muffled through the fabric. 

Then the asset is on top of him, hot breath against his ear.

"Actually," the asset whispers, voice rough and triumphant. "It's Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. And Gruzovoy Vagon."

He forces his knee up between Brock's legs, pressing against the taut fabric. Brock curses at him behind the t-shirt wadded in his mouth. Tactfully, the asset picks the knife up and cuts along the seams of Brock's pants. He can feel tears stinging the back of his eyelids, but he won't fucking cry. It's more from shock than anything else. He just. . . there will be no end to the shame when STRIKE finally picks them up.

The asset finishes and peels the cloth away from the older man's body. The stink of his heat permeates the air. Immediately his cock juts into the air, angry and nearly purple with need. The brunette's hands dance lightly along his flanks, gentle, far gentler than Brock would be. Finally, the asset lowers himself between the other man's legs mouth millimeters from his cock. 

"Also," the brunette murmurs, hungry eyes boring into his own, "You forgot a trigger word. 'Longing'"

Then, he takes Brock into his mouth and the older man screams. Immediately he comes, fire and need burning through his veins. He should be ashamed to be undone so fast, but something tells him this is far from over. The soldier uses his metal hand to clasp him around the base of his cock. He comes cleanly off Brock's dick, having drank down all of his essence. Brock whimpers behind the gag, cursing himself even as the sound leaves his lips.

"Don't worry, we have plenty of time." The Asset murmurs, before plunging one of his flesh fingers in Brock's sopping hole. 

Rumlow's vision goes white.


End file.
